


these mean kids

by thefudge



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, Canon Divergence, F/M, Family Drama, Mental Health Issues, Messy, Post-Canon, Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Trauma, ost: john maus - cop killer, ost: led zeppelin - in the evening, ost: lorde - buzzcut season
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:13:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27678598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: Post-DH. Draco Malfoy kills his father in cold blood. Hermione Granger wants to know why.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 57





	these mean kids

**Author's Note:**

> am i finally writing that post-canon dramione fic i've always wanted to? maybe so, maybe so.  
> i think i flirted with the possibility over the years, but never fully committed because this ship is so "iconic" and overdone in fanon that it feels like nothing more could be written about it. a few weeks ago, though, i suddenly got the urge to write about them (especially after reading some fanfic) so...i guess that well isn't dry yet.  
> i hope the story makes sense and they don't sound OOC. this semester is kicking me in the balls left and right so this isn't as polished as i'd like it to be, and probably the in-world references are a little iffy sometimes, but i am tired(TM) and need me some comfort dramione angst lol  
> this will probably have two parts, unless chapter two gets longer (i've already written bits of it).  
> i hope you enjoy!

"Once you stumble... human nature is on you."

- _Mrs. Dalloway_ , Virginia Woolf 

***

When the grey-haired wizard pulled back the sheet, Hermione saw why everyone was whispering in the hallways. Lucius Malfoy had not been killed by a Killing Curse. No, his throat had been brutally slashed, the cut jagged and irregular. The mortician showed her the timeworn dagger used in the act. An old family heirloom.

The young Malfoy was in custody. No one knew exactly what would happen next. Would he be sent to Azkaban? Would his sentence be lighter, given that he had killed a former Death Eater?

Hermione would eventually find out after meeting with the rest of the Wizengamot, but for now, she stood in that tiny room which smelled of antiseptic and camphor and stared at Lucius Malfoy’s corpse and wondered _why_.

Why had he done this?

And why in such an ugly manner?

She lifted a hand to her own throat. She still remembered the feel of the dagger there, when Bellatrix had threatened to kill her in such a terribly ordinary way.

How strange these recurrent images, these returning horrors.

“He’s not talking to anyone. He’s only confessed to the murder, but won’t say anything else to help his case,” Harry informed her succinctly as he locked his office door. “He refuses to name a motive. He refuses to cooperate altogether. He’s closed off.”

Hermione walked with him.

“Could he be in shock? The silence might be part of some kind of emotional strain.”

Harry shook his head. “I know Malfoy. I’d be able to tell if he was just coping with grief. That’s not him.” 

“You mean he’s not the type to have strong emotions?”

“No, I’m sure he has them. But he doesn’t regret what he did. He’s not in shock. It’s more like… he just wants to get it over with. He’s bent on being sent away.”

Hermione frowned. “But that desire alone should give us pause. Maybe he wants to punish himself.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe, but he chose a cowardly way.”

Hermione noticed the fatigue in his eyes, the distaste at the corner of his mouth. Even if Lucius had been a rather despicable man, he was still Malfoy’s father and Harry could not imagine killing one’s father. It was an unforgivable waste.

“Any word from the Wizengamot?” he asked, pulling her away from her thoughts.

“We haven’t officially conferred, but I’ve heard some inklings that they’re ready to use the full brunt of the law against him. I don’t know if I’ll be able to persuade them otherwise.”

Harry blinked. “I imagine you wouldn’t have much of a case.”

She nudged him pointedly. “You saved his life once, remember?”

“Yeah well, he’s throwing it away this time,” Harry muttered, sinking further into himself.

It was strange, sometimes, to realize that their youthful heroism had become a kind of ennui. She knew that the old Harry was still in there, underneath the adult weariness and crushing responsibilities that came with keeping several Auror divisions in check. It’s just that there was no point in resurrecting him. Old Harry wouldn’t have been able to make sense of their new world where problems almost never had solutions.

“Could I talk to him, do you think?” she wondered. 

“You’re Chief Warlock. Have at it. But I warn you that it’ll feel as useful as pulling Hippogriff teeth.”

Hermione chuckled. Most of her life, things had felt exactly as easy as pulling Hippogriff teeth.

“I’m used to it.”

The problem with growing up and getting a job and trying to put your life in order was that you had to do all of that _while_ dealing with magic. When she was younger, Hermione thought magic would make things simpler, neater. And in a way, it did, but that was the problem. Magic could be a powerful narcotic. You had to keep it in check. You had to stop yourself from getting drunk on it, from using all of its wonderful tricks to cheat existence.

It rattled her, how much of her job at the Ministry consisted in adjusting the dosage, making sure wizards and witches did not gorge and choke on it. 

She was often tempted herself.

For example now, she would’ve liked to use magic to _force_ Draco Malfoy to talk.

It could be done quite easily, even if it would soil her conscience. That was the terrifying thing about magic; you were one step away from never going back.

She pushed such thoughts aside as she stared at the young man before her.

Despite the passing years, he still looked like that finicky, privileged boy who would rudely push past you on the Hogwarts train, just because he could. Back then, Hermione had thought he was showing off his indifference and contempt to those he considered beneath him, but now she knew it had always been a matter of fear. Malfoy had always had a chip on his shoulder. Like all bullies, he desperately clung to power because he did not wish to be perceived as a victim.

The young man sitting across from her in his rather comfortable holding cell looked as if he was finally able to accept that he was weak. A victim, after all. Even if he had murdered his father in cold blood.

His silver-blond hair was mussed up and his clothes looked wrinkled. There was something starved about the lines of his face and there seemed to be a layer of grime on his brow that had nothing to do with dirt. He looked oddly pitiful, yet still arresting. Like a changeling found in the woods.

He had not been too surprised to see her. His eyes had barely registered her presence. He’d uttered a short and dry “Granger” before succumbing to silence.

Twenty minutes had gone by in this same silence.

She’d started with questions about his welfare. Was he feeling all right? Were the guards treating him well? The Ministry’s makeshift penitentiary was quite cozy compared to Azkaban, but it was still jail. He dismissed her questions with a careless shrug, saying nothing.

“Have you been sleeping at all?” she persisted, noting the almost violet circles under his eyes.

He nodded wanly, neither confirming nor denying.

“I don’t think you have. We could administer a dreamless sleep potion–”

“Not necessary,” he cut her off, staring at his hands.

She noticed the nails had been bitten to the quick.

She thought about what she should ask next, but she feared he would just sink further into apathy. He hadn’t always been like this.

“You’re certainly quieter than you were at school,” she said, finally, in a bid to rouse him. 

Malfoy only stared at her. His gaze was hardly focused, as if letting her know she was not worth the bother.

Hermione felt the sting.

“I remember you used to complain all the time. About everything,” she punctuated.

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. It was an odd sight, that sad half-grin.

“Oh yeah. What did I use to say? _My father will hear about this_.”

Hermione flinched. It was the same bratty voice, the echo of it disturbingly familiar.

She looked away.

After a few more trite replies, she realized there was nothing else to go on. He did not want to talk about anything.

She got up and left his cell, not without a sense of relief.

“We’ve got a problem.”

The Junior Deputy, Goldstein, placed the file on her desk.

Hermione flicked through the pages, eyes widening gradually as she read the report. “Merlin. That explains why she didn’t make an appearance at the hearing.”

She ran her thumb over the most recent photograph of Narcissa Malfoy. The older woman looked almost unrecognizable, not because her poised features or silky blond hair had been altered in any way, but because her eyes were lost, disoriented. Her gaze was absent. She no longer behaved like Narcissa Malfoy. She was someone else now.

“We tracked her down in Bergen, Norway. Malfoy Senior had obliviated her,” Anthony explained. “We examined his wand’s recent activity. It was definitely him who cast the memory charm.”

“But he didn’t do a very good job,” Hermione muttered. “It’s a very sensitive spell.”

“Yeah,” Anthony nodded sheepishly. “He – uh – he might have inflicted permanent mental damage. The mediwizards aren’t sure if they can reverse it. Likely she’ll never be the same.”

“That’s why Lucius shipped her off to Norway,” Hermione conjectured, biting her thumb. “So no one would notice.”

“Sounds like it.”

“Well, someone noticed,” she said, tapping the file with her forefinger. “And did something about it.”

“You think Malfoy Junior…” Anthony trailed off.

“Yes. I think we have a motive now.”

It felt both easier and harder to go back to that cell. She had more information now, but it was the kind she did not wish to touch.

Malfoy did not greet her this time. Hermione took a seat opposite him.

The large table felt like a too wide bridge that neither wanted to cross.

They sat like that for a few minutes, just looking at each other. It wasn’t a staring match, but it wasn’t pleasant either. He seemed to be waiting for her to speak or leave. She was waiting for the same thing, but her voice wouldn’t cooperate. This time, she preferred the silence.

And in that silence, she was tempted to probe his mind, just to see what it was like. Not to examine the finer details, but to get a sense of his general state. She cast the spell non-verbally. Legilimency often left a bitter aftertaste, but it had its uses. His mind was locked shut. There were many wards around it, some which he had raised unconsciously. She tried to slip past them, but it was a disorienting experience. She felt cold and sick to her stomach.

“That’s not very nice of you, Granger.”

His voice broke the thin connection of their minds.

Hermione cleared her throat. “Sorry, I – I was just checking –”

“If I’d gone off the deep end?”

“No. I don’t think you’re mad.”

“But you think there’s something wrong with my head?” he rejoined testily.

Narcissa’s file flashed before her eyes. She shook her head. “No. Everyone’s head is complicated. I just…wanted to see if you were okay.”

He scoffed. “I think you were just curious. But you always make it sound like you’re doing it for a higher purpose.”

“I don’t always – I was only –”

She sighed. Maybe she should just say what he wanted to hear. “Okay, I was curious.”

The muscle under his left eye pulsed faintly. He seemed mildly interested. “Really?”

“Wouldn’t you be, in my place?”

Malfoy looked down at the table. “I don’t think you’d ever be in my place.”

Hermione considered his reply. He was right, of course. But he was also wrong. There was so much she was capable of, so much he probably knew nothing about. Sometimes it frightened her.

“Your mother…” she began haltingly.

Malfoy looked up instantly.

“…is under care at St Mungo’s.”

“Is she – is she all right?” he asked in such a way that told her he would not believe her if she said yes.

“She is getting the treatment she needs,” Hermione hedged.

“Will she recover?”

Hermione lowered her eyes. “We can’t know for sure at the moment.”

“Will she be able to remember who she is? Who _I_ am?” he persisted.

“We …we have to wait and see.”

He shifted impatiently in his seat. “Can I at least see her?”

“No. I don’t think so. Not yet.”

His mouth warped, trembled, and then hardened into a thin line.

Hermione wanted to reach across and touch his clenched fist, but the table was too large, and she knew that it would feel alien to both of them.

“I’m sorry,” she said bleakly.

He lowered his head, shoulders hunched.

She hoped he would not cry. She wouldn’t know what to do.

But his face remained dry. In fact, it became almost stony. 

“You must have been angry with your father,” she ventured. “I know I would be. I would understand if that is why you…”

Her words petered off. Malfoy drew back his chair with a screech and walked to the other end of the room.

Hermione noticed the change in his demeanor. His jaw was taut. He did not want to talk about this. She did not want to, either, but it had to be done.

“He must have lied to you. He must have done it while you were away from home. You would have never allowed for this to happen.”

“Shut up, Granger.”

His voice was a warning.

She inhaled, pressing on. “Do you know why he did this to your moth-”

“I told you to shut up!”

He did not shout, precisely, but it was a strident command, the kind he expected her to follow because he was used to being listened to. Still, there was something plaintive about it, beseeching.

One of the guards pulled the shaft on the door and peeked inside, but Hermione waved him off.

She tried not to look at Malfoy, since he was trying to rein in his emotions.

Instead she looked straight at the wall in front of her.

She heard the words forming on her lips, heard them fall like heavy loadstones into dark water.

“Your father shouldn’t have attempted a spell like that. It always backfires, in some way. I should know. I obliviated my parents.”

The quiet in the room felt like being underwater. She could also feel Malfoy’s eyes on her. He was waiting for her to explain.

“I did it during the War,” she continued in a level voice. “I knew they would be vulnerable with a daughter like me. I wanted them to get as far away as possible. So, I modified their memories and implanted a few false ones. I gave them new identities and made them want to move to Australia. They were safe.”

Malfoy folded his arms.

“And after the War?” he asked.

She smiled a soft smile. “I brought them back home. At first, everything was all right. I took them to St. Mungo’s and most of the memory charms were reversed. But I – I had been too good in my spell work, you see. I had altered their minds to such a degree that, even when they got most of their memories back, it wasn’t quite the same. I still felt like a stranger to them. They…tried, _really_ tried to become the parents they had once been, but it was obvious it wasn’t going to work. They had no connection to me anymore.” 

Malfoy had moved back towards the table.

He stood before her.

“And?”

She shrugged. “And nothing. I’ve made my peace with it. I send them letters sometimes. A phone call, here and there. But I don’t have much to do with them anymore. They’re better off.”

Her voice sounded callous and horrible to her ears but he seemed to know exactly how much pain was hidden underneath, because, after all, he was an expert at exactly this kind of callousness.

“I still miss them, but it has gotten easier. It _is_ easier,” she said, squeezing her fingers together.

Malfoy sat down in his chair.

“I have never been questioned or charged for my actions,” she added, staring at him. “I altered my parents’ minds to the point of mutilation. I robbed them of something essential. But I did it for a – what did you call it? – higher purpose. So it was all right.”

There was silence for a few moments. Then Malfoy smiled. “Being a war hero certainly helped.”

“Yes, it did. No one will ever hold me accountable.”

“I suppose they think you hold yourself accountable,” he countered.

She was almost surprised by the wryness in his voice.

“Maybe. But I suspect they do not care.”

Malfoy cocked his head to the side. “Why did you tell me all this?”

“I guess I wanted to say that…I understand. Or I think I do. I know what it’s like to hurt your family irreversibly.”

He regarded her for a moment. Then he laughed a mean little laugh. “You think you hurt them? You don’t know the half of it, Granger. You’re lucky you weren’t born a Pureblood.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “Please don’t tell me you want me to feel sorry for you.”

He shook his head. “You already do.”

He was right, of course. And he was wrong too. Hermione could nurture both sympathy and distaste, both compassion and petty hatred, and these things never seemed to exclude each other.

She slid her elbows forward on the table. “Fine. Here is how I will present your case. Given your father’s actions, one could argue that he made an indirect attempt on your mother’s life and you tried to defend her.”

“I killed him post-fact, Granger. Weeks after. Or do you not have that in your files?”

She clenched her jaw. “Yes, but that’s because you found out about it too late. It could be argued that you were trying to protect her from any future action that your father might undertake. Your method was violent but …understandable. Your judgement was impaired and you lost control of your emotions.”

Malfoy’s shoulders were a taut line. “You don’t know anything about my lack of control.”

“I know enough.”

She could see he wanted to contradict her, but he seemed to think better of it.

“What is your point, anyway?” he asked instead. 

“My point is, maybe you won’t have to go to Azkaban. Maybe I can find a middle path.”

He leaned back. “Why the hell would you want to find a middle path?”

“What?”

“Why not let me go to Azkaban?”

“Do you _actually_ want that?”

He shrugged. “It’s not like I have better prospects elsewhere.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying. One week in there and you’ll change your tune.”

“So? Shouldn’t that be good for me? Teach me a lesson?” he drawled in that arch-aristocratic way that set her teeth on edge. “I thought you’d want me to rot in prison.”

“Why would I want that?”

“Wasn’t exactly nice to you in school, was I?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean I want you to suffer.”

Malfoy looked at her. “You fucked up your parents’ life, but you suddenly care a lot about mine. How does that work?”

Hermione felt as if all the air in her chest had been pushed out. There were pinpricks behind her eyelids.

She should have known not to give him ammunition. 

She rose from her chair. “I’ll come back in a few days after I’ve…sorted things out.”

Hermione’s hand reached for the door.

“Granger.”

“Yes?” she asked, without turning back.

“You don’t have to –”

“Don’t have to what?”

But he said nothing. When it was clear he was not going to say more, she pushed the door open and left him alone. 

“Do you want to say hi to Aunt Hermione? Come on, let’s say hi.”

Little Molly trotted clumsily across the floor, held up by her mother’s hands. Halfway through, she let go of her mother’s fingers and walked the rest on her own.

Hermione clapped, egging her on. “You’ve got it!”

She swept the little girl into her arms and made her sit in her lap. She kissed her fat little cheek. With her copper curls and tawny skin, little Molly looked like a young fawn, unaware of her own fragility as she bumped her little fists against Hermione’s chest. 

Lavender smiled proudly. “Every day she seems to grow bigger.”

“She’s beautiful,” Hermione murmured, holding the baby close.

“The prettiest birthday girl in the world, yes,” Lavender agreed.

Grandmother Molly and Ron and Aunt Ginny walked in from the kitchen with the cake. The candles were floating on top of the icing like a strange, ethereal crown.

Harry was in the corner, taking pictures.

Hermione felt sudden tears wet her eyelashes. It was so nice to be here with family.

She looked away briefly from this tableau. The window was dark and only the inkling of a country road could be seen outside. It felt as if this was the only home in the world.

She saw her face in the window. It looked like a normal face, and yet there was something wrong with it. For a long time, she used to think it was the teeth. But when the teeth were fixed, what was there left to undo?

She smiled until her cheeks hurt.

She turned around. They were all singing happy birthday. She joined in a beat later.

Hermione tapped the quill against the bottle of ink. She signed her name on the deferment. She could hear groans from her colleagues in the benches.

“We could have settled this already!” an older man objected, loud enough for her to hear.

“We shall settle it in due time,” Hermione explained patiently. “But we are dealing with a young man’s future. I cannot cast a hasty vote in good conscience.”

“Might we remind you, Chief Warlock, that this young man is a former Death Eater who has made no real effort to reform or rehabilitate himself?”

“He has put the past behind him. Before – before this incident he was self-employed. He was working as a freelance curse-breaker.”

“Yes, without a Ministry mandate,” Susan Bones pointed out mildly, but firmly. “Therefore his activity was not monitored or regulated.”

“We have access to his wand. He has not broken any laws –”

“You know very well, Miss Granger, that he had access to several unregistered wands,” the elderly man from before chimed in.

Ah yes, the Malfoy cachet. The family had always had an ample supply of unregistered magical objects, including those of the Dark variety.

“He was attempting to put his life in order,” Hermione began once more, “when this terrible tragedy occurred. His father attempted to harm his mother –”

“Lucius Malfoy’s intentions aside, this does not excuse the son. In fact, it is precisely because we pardoned the father that these events ultimately occurred. Must we now repeat the mistake with the son?”

Hermione tried to master her voice. “I think we can all agree that Azkaban is too extreme a measure –”

“Perhaps Mr. Malfoy should not have considered the extreme measure of cutting his father’s throat.”

“I agree, but we must consider the critical state of his mind at the time –”

“Have you ever sliced someone’s throat, Miss Granger? It demands quite a bit of self-possession.”

Hermione inhaled sharply. “Given that there were no witnesses, we cannot ascertain Mr. Malfoy's degree of self-possession –”

But her voice was swallowed up by more protests issuing from the benches.

They all talked at once, drowning her out.

Hermione rubbed the bridge of her nose. The problem was, most of them were right. This was going to be an uphill battle.

She had often brought up the issue to her colleagues during their regular sessions. Something ought to be done about Azkaban. In a post-Voldemort world, prison reform was mandatory, she argued.

“That place breeds Death Eaters, instead of reforming them.”

But always this argument was countered by the pessimism of her fellow adjudicators who did not believe that wizards and witches _could_ reform any other way. It was the existence of magic, once more, which complicated things.

Lately, however, she had managed to sway a few votes her way. She had even managed to propose more broad-minded legislation, which would only need to be voted through in the plenary and be backed by Kingsley Shacklebot, Minister for Magic.

But Malfoy’s latest stint had put a damper on these plans. Nothing retarded progressive policies like the resurgence of old Death Eaters, particularly the original guard.

On the other hand, if she could commute Malfoy’s sentence, it might just be the push the Wizengamot needed in order to vote for prison reform. It was risky, but worth the effort, not least because she’d be saving his life.

Still, what the Wizengamot couldn’t seem to swallow was the way he had killed his father. Perhaps they might have found extenuating circumstances, even for a Killing Curse. But a barbaric and very Muggle throat-slashing was too unsavory to them.

The only way she could change their minds was to somehow prove that…it was not a Muggle killing, after all.

 _The dagger_ , she thought. _I have to look at it more closely._

The more you looked at an object, she found, the more dangerous it became.

No matter the degree of innocence, it always had potential for harm.

Particularly if it carried a blade.

She touched her throat.

Always the ghost there.

The next time she saw him, she felt more ready to make him listen. She always felt more up to the task when she had done her research. 

This time, she wasn’t going to back down.

She sat in her chair and placed her hands on the table, palms down.

“How are you feeling?”

Malfoy leaned back in his chair, arms folded. He shrugged. “Fine.”

“Good. Why do you think your father felt the need to obliviate your mother?”

He clearly had not expected the direct approach. His eyes blew wide in disbelief.

“Are you _serious_?”

“Let me rephrase. How was their relationship before your father’s intervention?”

He glowered at her. “That’s none of your concern.”

“I was thinking perhaps your mother wanted to leave him and this was his way of keeping her at his side. I know he was quite possessive of her, wasn’t he?”

His nostrils flared. “Fuck you.”

Well, at least that was out of the way.

She leaned forward. “Or was your mother perhaps…not feeling well? Not acting like herself? Maybe he decided to alter her mind for appearances’ sake. He was a very proud man, after all.”

Malfoy’s jaw was clenched tight. His fingers were itching for a wand. Or maybe a knife. He stared at her as if he wished her violence.

And she knew she deserved it. “You see, I am going to make all sorts of injurious suppositions until you tell me.”

“Oh, you’ve _definitely_ convinced me now,” he spat.

Hermione smiled a thin smile. “I am trying to help you, even though you can’t see it.”

“You can stuff your help –”

“I also looked at that dagger again. You know, the one you used to cut his throat. The family heirloom.”

His shoulders sagged. He seemed to hesitate in his rage.

“What do you want with that?”

“I wanted to make sure what kind of dagger it was. I thought it was a plain silver dagger, like the one Bellatrix held to my throat when she tortured me,” she said without missing a beat.

Malfoy held her gaze, though something in his eyes flickered at the mention of his aunt.

“Turns out, it’s not a plain silver dagger. And it's not that old either. Your father bought it from a Dark Arts dealer when you were just a child. It’s woven with all sorts of dark spells.”

“ _So_? I did not use any spells. I used the blade alone. It did the trick.” He sneered.

“That may be so, but the dagger is tainted. It _is_ a magical object, even though it wasn’t actively pursuing a magical end. We could argue that it exerted a dark influence on you, whether you knew it or not.”

“Bullshit.”

She lifted her chin. “Doesn’t matter. All I need is for the Wizengamot to agree with me.”

“Why? Why the fuck are you doing this? I’m guilty, I _confessed_ ,” he growled, slamming his fist on the table.

“You didn’t tell them the whole story. And you still haven’t told me, either.” Hermione pushed back her chair. “You’ll probably be called to the stand again, but you’ll only make my case stronger when you confess to your guilt. Frankly, you don’t look like you’re in control of things.”

She stared at his hands which were shaking, as if to prove her point.

“I’ll come back after court sessions,” she added, turning towards the door.

“Oh no, you don’t get to leave like that,” he said, getting up from his chair.

Hermione did not want to alert the guards outside.

She issued a non-verbal spell at him.

Malfoy was pushed up against the opposite wall, gently, but firmly.

He stared at her, incredulous, enraged, but most of all confused. Why was she doing this?

“Is this all some kind of game to you? To prove you’re right? Like it’s fucking Hogwarts all over again.”

Hermione looked down.

Yes, when you came down to it, many things were like school, only now stripped bare of theory and restraint. 

“Maybe I just don’t want you to die a slow and torturous death,” she said.

His scorn was obvious in the slant of his mouth. “Right, so _you_ ’ll torture me instead?”

She shook her head. “Still the spoiled brat, I see. If you think _this_ is torture, then you have never been under duress before.”

Her words echoed far beyond their present conversation.

He flinched. “You have no idea.”

Hermione’s shoulders sagged. “Yes, well, you don’t either.”

He did not stop her when she opened the door, this time.


End file.
